The Engineer had drugged Lazurus's whole crew at the party they gave in his honor for escaping, drugged them and shot them in the head, shot them one by one as they snored away. Except for Gregor. He had watched his bodyguard snoring, and the Engineer had actually placed the barrel of his pistol in Gregor's mouth, started to squeeze the trigger… and stopped. Sometimes he surprised himself. He had been so angry that night, angry at Frank for not staying at the safe house, angry at having to rush with Kimberly, not being able to take his time. Killing the crew had been necessary for security reasons, but it didn't really diminish his anger.
"Up." The Engineer turned on the ignition, pulled away from the curb. He could see the red taillights of Thorpe's car far ahead. He didn't turn on his headlights until Thorpe turned the corner. He sped up now, afraid they were going to lose Thorpe.
25
Thorpe drove slowly down the alley, lights off, not knowing what he was doing here. He should be home. He should be knocking on Claire's door, apologizing for ignoring her these last few days, but he didn't want to lie to her about his reasons. Instead, he was dodging potholes and overflowing garbage cans at 4:00 a.m., still pissed off that the Engineer hadn't taken the bait. He wouldn't be able to sleep now anyway, might as well check up on the Meachums' house. They might have returned early from their second honeymoon. If they'd had a fight, Meachum would have run off to his girlfriend, but Gina would have come home to her paintings. The front of their house gave no indication of recent activity, but he drove down the alley anyway. He slowed as he passed their back door, continued on, and parked beside their neighbor's garage. He had seen something in the space between the window shade and the frame: the flicker of a television. He walked slowly toward the house, staying to the edges of the alley, where there were no pebbles to make noise.
He edged closer to the window. The TV was on in the back bedroom, tuned to CNN, the sound low. Leaving the TV on when you went out of town wasn't a bad idea. That was one possibility. If Gina had come home by herself, she might not have wanted to sleep in her marriage bed anymore. That was another possibility. Someone changed the channel with a remote, the room momentarily brighter, and Thorpe glimpsed a man in the dimness of the bedroom. He put away the 9-mm, shaking his head. This was a possibility he hadn't considered.
Thorpe knocked on the back door, and the door rattled, unlocked. He knocked again, opened the door. "Ray! It's me, Frank. Ray?"
The kitchen light came on, and Ray Bishop stood there, barefoot, scratching his ass with a.38. "Come on in."
Thorpe closed the door behind him, locked it. "Ray, what are you doing here?"
"Same thing you're doing. Looking out for these people…" Bishop was wearing new Bermuda shorts and a sport shirt with a button-down collar. Clean-shaven. He padded over to the refrigerator, barely limping. "You want a soft drink? I got Coke, 7Up-"
"How did you find this place?"
"You think you're the only one who can run an investigation?" Bishop slipped the.38 into his front pocket, took out a can of Coke. "The morning after you came calling, I went to the library, did a search on Clark and Missy. The most recent entry was that nasty column that society broad wrote. I ran her next, and found out she got run down the same day the column came out. Didn't take much to figure out that you were worried that the Meachums were next. The gallery was closed, but it wasn't hard to find out where they lived." He cracked the can, Coke foaming across his knuckles, but he ignored it. "You told me at the construction site that you had put them in the soup, but for the life of me, I can't figure out what you might have done."
"You can't stay here."
"Why not?" Bishop sipped from the can. "The Meachums aren't going to be back for a while. They left their itinerary on a notepad, the hotel they are staying at, everything. They were either in a big hurry or just naive, I can't make up my mind. The lock on that back door… I opened it with a bankcard and a paper clip."
The Meachums had been in a hurry. On the counter, Thorpe could see the hammer and the picture hooks Gina had been using when he interrupted her. "Ray… you being here, it's breaking and entering."
"You going to turn me in?"
"That's not the point. Vlad and Arturo might show-"
"I hope they do." Bishop flipped off the light. "Come on, you want to watch some TV?"
Thorpe followed him into the back bedroom. In the dim light from the TV, he could see Bishop's security uniform draped over a hanger, an overnight bag on the floor. He stayed standing while Bishop sat in an armchair. "You're planning on being a hero, Ray?"
"After you left, I got to thinking." The images from the TV were reflected in Bishop's face, but he wasn't watching the set. "Vlad and Arturo are expecting to find a couple of Yuppies here, trusting folks who think calling 911 is the answer to all their problems." He finished his Coke, set the can down on a coaster. "Well, I know who Vlad and Arturo are, and I'm not about to give them a fair chance-they show up, I'm going to blow their brains out. Self-defense. I may not even stick around to call it in." He belched, proud of himself.
Thorpe sat down. "What about your job? You had a good thing going there."
Bishop gave him the finger, and they both laughed.
"Okay, it was a shit job," said Thorpe, "but you can't stay here."
"You don't think I can handle myself?"
"No… it's not that."
"I used to be a good cop."
"I know-"
"I haven't had a drink since I saw you last… and, yeah, it's not the first time I've been sober for a few days, but this time feels different." Bishop leaned forward in his chair. "I'm grateful to you, Frank. That night at the site, seeing you all rough-and-ready-that used to be me. I was the guy asking questions; I was the guy standing up for what was right. I was no saint, but I did my job." His hands gripped the arms of the chair. "Clark and Missy beat me back in Riverside, they took away everything I cared about, and I let them. I rolled over and let them. Well, not anymore. I'm not going back to punching a clock, protecting lumber and drywall, and pretending it's all fine." He pointed at his uniform. "I keep that there to remind me. I actually had to buy that thing, you believe it?" He shook his head. "No thanks. I know who I am now."
Thorpe nodded. "You look good."
"I feel good." Bishop breathed easily, relaxed now, settling in to his flesh and his newfound certainty. "It's like I lost my way these last few years, but coming here, on my own, making that decision myself… it's like I got a direction again." He blushed, his face pink as a canned ham. "I guess someone like you can't understand what that's like."
"Ray… I understand exactly what that's like."
Bishop stared at him. "Yes, I believe you do. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt so envious of you when you walked off the site, on your way to do what I should be doing." He leaned closer, his features grotesque in the flickering light of the TV. "I bet you made some outrageous fuckups in your time. I bet you made some real doozies."
Thorpe just smiled.
"You don't give anything away, do you? I like that. There's too many talkers, you ask me. I'd still like to know how you got mixed up with Clark and Missy, though. I can see how that newspaper column would set her off, but how was that your fault? Did you talk to this Betty B?"
"No, but I might as well have."
Bishop watched him, waiting for more, then gave up. He patted his belly. "You hungry? I'll scramble us up some eggs."